


Midas Touch

by Amatara



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Not A Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amatara/pseuds/Amatara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack thinks of the lives that he touched, and that touched him. These days, he doesn't flatter himself. Post-<i>Children of Earth</i>, not a fix-it. Jack's POV, and mentions many others including Alice and Steven, Team Torchwood, and Martha Jones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midas Touch

You joked about it once, with Martha. What the Doctor touches, turns to gold.

(Especially if they're blonde, she said, and you both laughed, more indulgent than wistful now. Both of you were over that. You were glad for Martha; it had been a damn waste.)

But really, all jokes aside, it's true. You never knew Rose in a Doctor-less era, or spent enough time with her to see her change, but you met Mickey before he found his courage, and Martha before she found her self-worth, and of course you know the kind of man _you_ were before the Doctor. (Or do you? You aren’t really sure.)

What the Doctor touches, turns to gold.

(You wonder, sometimes, what happens to the ones you touch. You’re wondering now, nursing your drink, staring at long pale legs dancing, into slanted eyes hinting, without really seeing much at all.)

You used to see by touch, live by touch, but you can’t now. Not yet.

Ianto, Gwen, Owen, Tosh, they all loved you, in some way, for the purpose you gave them. They fought for the world, for the future, true, but more than that they fought for the man Jack Harkness. You believed that was a good thing, once. Believed it was your gift: to rally, inspire, give strength. To make people – if not better, like the Doctor could – at least aware of what they could do. (And, God, you really don’t need to be remembering now the things one Ianto Jones could do, you don’t.) Even after Tosh went, after Owen, you kept on believing it.

If it had just been Ianto, you could still have gone on. Ianto, gone down fighting in exchange for all the world's children. Given that choice, he would have made it for himself, so who would you be not to accept that? It would have hurt like hell regardless, but in the end, you could have lived with it. You did that before, and you'll do it again.

(Not that there’s any other option.)

It still isn't fair, though. Never in a thousand years will it be goddamn fair to have good people dying while the ruthless live.

But Steven – just, no.

What Jack Harkness touches, turns to dust, you think, and swirl your drink until your head is swirling, too.

You keep pictures of all of them, pictures you didn't even know you had, until you began looking. Once you started, you found them everywhere. A snippet of Alice in your wallet; Lucia's smile in a box at the bottom of a drawer; a crumpled school portrait of a six-year-old Steven; the ID picture of Martha which was meant for administration but never used. Two pairs of eyes stared back at you from inside Ianto's locker – you cut off your own, so it's only one face now – and sneakily, during the night, you copied the photo of Owen and Tosh that Gwen kept stuck to her laptop.

You hold on to the pictures like fallen leaves. Brittle and precious, and every one is punishment.

You should have held him, you think, trailing your thumb over Steven's upswept nose (Lucia’s nose), the paper already thinning at the edges. When he was dying (_frying_, a voice cackles in your ear, and you swat it away, but it keeps buzzing like a nasty fly) someone should have been there to hold him. No one should have to go like that, a kid least of all. You could have gone to him, touched him, swept him up into your arms and told him he was loved. That, too, would have hurt like hell, but you could have.

You didn’t, though. It was all you could do just to watch.

(The worst is that he trusted you. Even with Alice screaming for him through the glass, he looked you in the eye and wasn’t afraid. He trusted you on sight. They all do. Right until you lead them to their deaths.)

Ianto you did touch, of course. Still, you didn’t tell him, in the end, how he touched_ you_.

(You know he knew anyway, but that’s no excuse.)

And still they trust you. Gwen, wearing her belly like a precious, gorgeous burden, still asks you to stay. That Rhys doesn’t stop her is halfway towards asking, too, which somehow makes it worse.

(How could you ever touch Gwen’s child now, when Alice was right all along?)

So you run, telling yourself that this too, is how it should be.

Time swirls on, while you nurse your drinks and watch their faces, and one day, as the pictures start to fade, you will find you can see through them, into life, once more. Be able to touch without dreading those memories. One day, you'll begin again.

This is not yet that day.


End file.
